Chapter 1
ONE
SIERRA
“Hey, bitch!”
I look up…
Just in time to see the drink flying toward me.
I try to dodge, but I’m not an athlete, not a woman with any amount of dodging skills.
The soda hits me straight in the gut, the plastic lid flying off and spraying my from head to toe in dark, sticky liquid.
Fun time.
The car screeches away, leaving me soaked, my plain white t-shirt stained and clinging to my skin.
As far as insults go, I’ve heard much worse.
As far as damage to my wardrobe?
I sigh. Well, I’ve had much worse of that as well.
When the number one song from the world’s most popular band is written about you, that’s bound to happen.
And when that song listed my numerous wrongdoings––fair or not, correct or not––it’s easy to see why I’m numero uno on the list of the currently infamous women.
A drop of soda slides down to the corner of my mouth and my tongue flicks out to catch it.
At least it’s the brand I like.
Though, probably it’s laced with poison.
Or anthrax.
Or E. coli.
Or some other form of bodily fluids.
“Ew,” I mutter, knowing that the term bodily fluids shouldn’t be crossing my mind.
The bright side is that poison might actually put me out of my misery.
“Here.”
I jump and look up—
Look way up into the face of a man I’d noticed in the bar.
A man who was impossible to not notice, just for his size alone.
He’d taken up far too much of the booth inside the bar, and squeezed in between his equally large companions, the sight had been almost comical.
Big, bearded men.
Several tiny woman interspersed in between.
Hearing their laughter and tamping down the jealously as I’d nursed my glass of house chardonnay (which was about as good as you’d expect considering that this bar definitely specialized in anything except wine).
Wishing I’d had that too.
Knowing I never would.
But still having to tear my gaze from the table…and from that quiet, built man who’d drawn my stare over and over again.
Tattoos inked onto his arms, the art disappearing beneath the short sleeves of his tee. I’m amazed he’s out here in that shirt since it’s barely forty out and only going to get colder.
Meanwhile, I was bundled up like I was going to hit one of the ski slopes that had only just closed several weeks before, after a record winter (including a Snowmaggedon) meant that they’d stayed open well into the spring.
The man’s big body folds so that he can meet my eyes. “You okay?”
Right.
Because I’ve been staring at him.
“Yup,” I say, grabbing the material he holds out. “Sorry, I—”
Well, how does one explain that I’m in the middle of a crisis and keeping my life together by the slenderest of threads?
Or that I’d left all of my belongings—and my entire life behind—when I drove up from Los Angeles the week before, thinking that I could get lost in sleepy, laidback Tahoe…
And clearly underestimating how far social media had spread the song.
And my picture.
And—
“I don’t think you’re good, little fox.”
I still, brows drawing together. “Um, what did you call me?”
“Little fox,” he says matter-of-factly, taking the material from me, and starting to lift it, as though to wipe the sticky cola from me when I realize what the fabric is.
A sweatshirt.
“You can’t do that.” I skitter back and he freezes.
“Call you little fox?” One big shoulder lifts and drops. “Okay,” he says agreeably. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He nods toward my ponytail. “It’s just that your hair is the color of a fox’s coat.”
I blink, resist the urge to pull the end of my hair forward to see that for myself.
I look in the mirror every day—I know as much as anyone else that my hair is on the wrong side of orange for a redhead.
But fox like?
That feels…icky.
Especially with the single still rocking at the top of every chart—Billboard to streaming.
She’s a sneaky bitch.
She’s an awful witch.
She’s—
The man in front of me extends that fabric again, almost swiping it over my skin before I jump back a second time and almost fall off the curb.
“Easy,” he says, voice gentling to something like velvet. “I won’t touch you if you’re not comfortable. I just—” He lifts the sweatshirt toward me a third time.
“You can’t do that,” I say again, heart pounding from my near tumble.
Then because I know I’m making this all more complicated than it needs to be, I add, “Your sweatshirt is white, and the soda’s going to stain.
I—” I pluck at my tee. “This is already stained and I’m heading out, so it doesn’t matter. ”
His head tilts to the side, long hair swinging behind his head.
And, swear to God, how does that look like a hair commercial, the dark locks all smooth and shining in the moonlight.
Definitely better than my fox tail.
“So,” he says while I’m still processing my jealousness over that hair, “you’re not jumping like a scared little fox because you’re worried about me touching you.”
Well, now that he mentions it, that should probably be the obvious concern.
Only, I didn’t think it because I’d spent the last couple of hours peeping on him and his friends.
Imaging the type of man he is.
No, seeing the type of man he is.
Sharing in buying the rounds of drinks, pulling out a chair for one of the women, listening indulgently to another, swiping at the table with a handful of napkins when someone spilled a drink, stacking plates for the server to pick up.
Nice.
Considerate.
She’s a sneaky bitch.
She’s an awful witch.
She’s worse than the sun on a blazing hot day.
She doesn’t deserve to have any say.
She’s—
The lyrics blaring through my ears—and yes, I hate myself for having them memorized, even though they’re catchy as shit—mean that I don’t have the chance to stop this man from reaching toward me again.
From running the sweatshirt over my skin, wiping the soda off.
From staining the fabric.
Shit.
“I’m Bear,” he says quietly as he continues drying me off.
“Sierra,” I find myself replying woodenly.
His brows flick up and I shake myself out of my stupor.
Dumb. Ass.
How many women have parents who name them Sierra…and have the number one song in the world written about them?
And I’d just given him my real name—
“I, uh—”
He frowns, dark brows drawn together. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, bracing for this mountain of a man to put the pieces together, to give me the same derision I’ve been facing since the song came out a few months ago. I hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “I should go. It’s getting late.”
Something crosses his face, but he doesn’t give voice to it, just pulls the fabric back and nods, eyes drifting beyond me. “Want me to walk you to your car?”
I inhale, and yeah, there’s something soft in my belly at the question.
But I’m a single woman who’s alone in a new city.
And this man could hurt me.
And…I’ve had enough of men hurting me.
“No,” I say, stepping back a pace. “But thank you.”
Another flicker across his face. “Okay,” he says on a nod. “Be safe…Sierra.”
And then he’s gone—pushing back into the bar.
Disappearing from sight.
From my life.
But why does that feel wrong?